


(Not The) Tequila

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 00:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1585565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stop that."  So serious, so solemn, those big brown eyes wide and unblinking.  "You're not too old.  For anything."</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Not The) Tequila

**Author's Note:**

  * For [persnickett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/persnickett/gifts).



> Written for Persnickett for her birthday. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SNICK!
> 
> * * *

John blames the tequila.

The couple of beers with dinner didn't help, nor the overpriced celebratory drinks with the frou-frou names at the cocktail bar that Matt dragged him to afterwards. But it is the tequila at home in the living room that tips him over the edge.

Because one moment he is joking with Matt about being too old now to stay up past midnight on a work night and the next Matt is somehow straddling his lap, his warm hands cupping his face and—

"Stop that." So serious, so solemn, those big brown eyes wide and unblinking. "You're not too old. For anything."

\--and then Matt's lips are on his and the kiss goes from zero to sixty in about two point five seconds, because Matt kisses just like he does everything else – with passion and gusto and no thought to the consequences. And John means to push him away, but his hands end up on Matt's hips and he can feel that warm sliver of skin where Matt's faded T-shirt has ridden up and he can't resist the lure of all that smooth unblemished flesh. His hands push at the fabric, slide across Matt's quivering stomach and torso until his thumbs brush against Matt's nipples. Matt shivers above him, one hand leaving his face to smooth over his head. He never knew the brush of fingers on his scalp could be so damned erotic.

"Matt," he says, and he means it to sound gruff and disapproving but instead it's nothing more than a breathless moan, and then Matt is sucking his bottom lip between his teeth and Matt's hand has left his head and the sound of his zipper sliding down inch by inch is very loud in the silence and it's only when Matt's hand slips into his chinos that he is able to push the kid away, stumble up from the sofa and remember who's the grown-up here.

He scrubs a hand over his head, smoothly shaven for the occasion. "No," he rasps out. He clears this throat, tries to shake away the dizziness that might be the tequila or might be Matthew Farrell. "We can't do this."

"Oh," Matt says lazily, "we totally can. I'm up for it. _Very_ up."

It's when Matt says shit like that that John remembers that Matt's a goddamn kid with barely a couple of decades under his belt, and John himself is an old man with far too many miles on the old odometer. 

"No," he insists. He fumbles with his zipper and does his best to put his scrambled thoughts together, stalks a few paces away from the kid to give himself some breathing room. He can't fuck this up.

He needs Matt too much.

"I've been here before, all right?" he finally says. "There was Sheila from the front desk. Used to see her a couple three times a week whenever I went down to the courthouse. We'd joke, have a few laughs, and then one night at the bar after the softball game things happened and next thing I know she's avoiding me whenever I gotta go down for a deposition. We're friends, Matt, and when two people throw… something like this into the mix, it just makes things too complicated. Things get awkward. People get hurt."

"Sure," Matt says, blinking up at him slowly from where he's prone on the sofa. "But you didn't love Sheila from the front desk."

It takes two tries for John's lips to work. "What did you say?"

"You heard me," Matt says. He rolls lithely into a sitting position, and when he licks his lips John can't help but focus in on that quick swipe of tongue. His mouth is dry, but he still tries to protest, only stops when Matt holds up a hand. 

"This is the part where you tell me that you're too old, which is bullshit, and that I just have a crush on you because you saved my life eight billion times. Or that I have some weird daddy complex because I didn't get loved enough as a child. Then you'll tell me that I don't know what I'm doing because I'm too young, and that you're a total dick with one failed marriage behind you and you're set in your ways and hard to deal with and I should just find a nice girl my own age and have lots of babies. Am I close?"

John swallows convulsively. "Maybe a nice boy," he says.

Matt gets to his feet, swipes a hand through his hair. And John has a quick sensory memory of that hair tickling against the back of his hand when they sat together watching the game, John with one arm slung around the back of the sofa. The innocuous thought makes his heart race, and he really can't blame the tequila. 

"Then I'll tell you that I'm plenty old enough to know what I want. That I did start out having a crush on you, because you're a goddamn _superhero_ , McClane. And that then I met the man behind the supercop and I liked him even more, even though he does leave the crusty dinner pots in the sink for two days and never takes out the recycling, both of which are total asshole moves, by the way. I'll remind you that I like my father just fine, and that babies make me run screaming from the room. And that I maybe wouldn't mind a hamster."

Matt's been moving closer throughout his little speech, and now John looks down when one finger prods gently against his chest. He's always told himself he's not afraid of anything – he'll take on everything from terrorists to tweakers flying on PCP – but it takes all the effort he can muster to raise his eyes to Matt's face.

"So let's just skip all the chatter and get to the point. You're my best friend, John, and I know what I want," Matt says. He presses his finger against his chest a second time for emphasis before flattening his palm. "I want you."

John's heart is beating so fast he's sure Matt is able to feel it through his shirt. He can't breathe, can't look away from Matt's wide, trusting eyes. Can't think, even though he knows there must be a flaw in Matt's logic, a reason why they just can't work. Because he's been resisting what he feels for Matthew Farrell for so damn long, and Matt _is_ young, and it's John's goddamn job as the more mature adult to make sure that Matt doesn't get hurt and—

"I love you," Matt says. 

\-- and this time it is John who initiates the kiss, who gives in to the urge to run his fingers through Matt's silky hair. Matt sighs and leans against him and John's realizes that it's not only his heart that is racing, not only his breath that is rough and unsteady when they briefly part. John isn't sure when he ends up on the floor, propped up on his elbows with his mouth latched onto the slim column of Matt's neck, the thick press of Matt's cock against his thigh and Matt's gasps loud in his ears.

He pulls away to press his forehead into the crook of Matt's neck, to still his ragged breathing. To think. Maybe tomorrow they will stare uncomfortably at each other over the breakfast table and Matt won't start lecturing him about the preservatives in his cereal and the fat content in his bacon and John won't grouse to Matt about the energy drink he consumes with his vitamin-enriched free-range eggs. Maybe they won't share the paper until John has to leave for work. Maybe he won't watch appreciatively – surreptitiously – as Matt wanders back to his office to begin his own workday still clad only in his slouching pajama pants. 

Matt smoothes a hand over his scalp, fingers making idle circles on the skin. John shudders, breathes Matt in. Sweat and salt and the lingering sweetness of Matt's aftershave. 

He doesn't think he could bear to lose their friendship. He's come to rely on debunking Matt's preposterous conspiracy theories, on debating the merits of the Rangers goalies, of watching Matt's ridiculous TV shows. He needs Matt's wit and his passion and his razor sharp mind in his life. 

But he doesn't think he can lose this, either. Not now that he's touched Matt, now that he's given in to the feelings that he's kept hidden for so many months. Not now that he knows Matt feels the same. He's lost track of how many times he's lain awake at night, imagining Matt pushing open the door to his bedroom, climbing into his bed. The sweetness of the fantasies didn't take the aftermath into account. 

It has only been a few moments but Matt is almost perfectly motionless beneath him, the only movement the slow circling of his fingers and the warm puff of breath against John's ear. Matt's a smart kid. For all his fervor, he knows when to be quiet. 

In the end John puts his faith in the smartest guy he knows. 

He raises his head, meets Matt's eyes. "You're sure?"

In reply Matt lifts up slightly to kiss him, and when he nudges at him John lets him roll them onto their sides. Matt tucks a hand beneath his head, slides one leg between John's and smiles. "If you stop now I might have to kill you," he says. "Not that I'd actually succeed, because you could probably take a person out with one hand held behind your back and an oozing bullet hole in your shoulder. Oh wait, there's actually no _probably_ about that scenario." 

"Worked, didn't it?" John grunts out. He raises a hand to push the hair out of Matt's eyes, takes a breath. There's no turning back now. It feels a bit like leaping off the edge of that jet fighter, a bit like jumping from the roof of Nakatomi. Similar, but this is a hell of a lot scarier. "I love you too, kid."

"I know," Matt says smugly. He closes his eyes, scoots a little closer. "Happy birthday, John."

John smiles.


End file.
